Parachutes
by QWERTYfaced
Summary: Peter finds Neal's escape kit. This disturbs both of them. [Genfic, friendship. Oneshot.]


**Title:** Parachutes  
**Author:** QWERTYfaced  
**Fandom:** White Collar  
**Wordcount:** ~5100  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters:** Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones  
**Genre:** Gen, friendship  
**Notes:** Written for a fic/art exchange with leesa_perrie on **collarcorner**'s Comment-a-Thon 28, and inspired by her prompt and elrhiarhodan's wonderful "Things Taken, Things Left Behind." (You should try it.)  
**Summary:** Peter finds Neal's escape kit. This disturbs both of them.  
**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction. All characters and settings belong to their respective copyright holders, not me. Which is why I don't have a monument yet.

* * *

As a bag, it was perfectly fine. It was small, sleek, and unassuming. Black leather, silver-washed fittings, a mere 12 by 18 inches.

But neither man was happy to see it on the table in the New York City loft.

"Do you want to explain this?" Peter asked. The FBI agent's head was cocked slightly to one side, as if he really wanted or expected a good explanation, but his shoulders were already set in resignation, and his gaze was disappointed.

Neal Caffrey shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to shrug it off, flashing an easy smile. "You know, Peter, I find I don't."

"Not good enough, Neal."

Blue eyes met brown, as Neal studied his partner's face to gauge whether or not a really good story would work. It clearly wouldn't, but he gave it a try anyway.

"Well, they do say you should always keep an emergency kit in your home. You know, in case of fire, or earthquakes, or terrorist activity..."

"Neal." Peter gave a pointed look at the supplies he'd yanked out of the bag after discovering it. The bottle of water, the first aid kit, and toiletries were innocent enough; and the shirt and tie were pretty much typical, at least if you considered the bag's owner. More incriminating were the tools, the lockpicks, the burner phones...

Oh, and the three complete sets of ID, each under a different name, yet all with Neal's photo attached.

Yeah. Those didn't help.

But Neal was nothing if not persistent. He stood there, still wide-eyed and smiling, almost palpably exuding waves of persuasive charisma.

"Zombie apocalypse," he said. "I mean, genetic modification, drug-resistant superviruses... It could happen, Peter."

Ignoring Neal's attempts to charm his way out of trouble, Peter gave the bag a frustrated smack with the back of his hand. "Dammit, Neal, stop lying. It's a flight bag."

The smile slid off Neal's face, and he raised one finger in remonstrance. "Technically, I never lied." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, adjusting his tie clip. "It's for emergencies."

"Like when you decide to run." There was a thin edge of anger in the agent's voice.

"Peter..." Neal sighed.

Peter cut him off brusquely, sweeping everything back into the bag. "We have to get to the office. But we are _not_ done talking about this."

"I wasn't planning on using it," Neal said quietly.

For a moment, hope warred with cynicism in the other man's expression. Cynicism won. The bag was jerked abruptly off the table.

"I'm still confiscating it."

* * *

They stayed silent throughout the drive, and Neal sulked. But, being no one but himself, he bounced back with an ease that Peter found slightly suspicious. By the time the elevators opened on the 21st floor, he'd apparently recovered his native ebullience, sauntering into the office to make his daily pretense at flirting with any woman within range.

Peter gave him a speculative look and beckoned Jones over.

"Do me a favor and keep an eye on Caffrey for a while, will you?"

Jones raised a brow, also glancing over at Neal. The consultant had just been slapped down by an amused Diana, and had promptly moved on to one of the administrative assistants—a plump woman near retirement age, with pictures of her granddaughters on her desk.

"I found a flight bag in his apartment this morning," Peter explained. He briefly detailed its contents. "He said he needed it for the zombie apocalypse," he added dryly.

"You think he's going to run?"

"I don't know," Peter said, running a frustrated hand over his jaw. "But he could be planning something."

They watched Neal work the floor like a party host, leaving a wake of smiles behind him. After all these months, Neal's magnetism and perseverance had worked their magic. Even the agents who had been most hostile to him in the early days now gave up grudging chuckles at his lighthearted banter.

"Do you think he is?" Jones asked. He sounded reluctant to believe it.

"I hope he's not. But he is Neal Caffrey." Peter sighed. Much as he deeply wanted to trust Neal wasn't up to something, he couldn't bring himself to. "Just...keep an eye out."

"You got it, boss."

"Thanks, Clint. I suppose we'd better get to work." Peter raised his voice and looked around, catching eyes. "My team, conference room!"

As people gathered their things and headed up the stairs, Neal broke off his latest conversation and fell in beside Peter. The agent gave him a jaundiced look.

"Done with your adoring public?" he asked sarcastically.

Neal's cheerful smile didn't diminish. "Never."

Peter just wished he could believe that.

* * *

In the conference room, Neal resolved to throw himself into this meeting with extra energy. He hadn't missed the skeptical look that had crossed Peter's face at his earlier quip.

So Peter had doubts. Well, he couldn't really be blamed for automatically distrusting half of what came out of Neal's mouth. But maybe Neal could _show_ him that he was fully present, fully engaged.

He took his seat at the table without any of his usual patter and waited attentively.

Peter handed around the copied case files as people settled in. "We're after Andres Muñoz," he said.

"The drug lord?" Diana asked, frowning.

"Well, _allegedly_," Peter said, darting a glance at Neal. "The guy's good at covering his tracks, though, and no one's been able to make the drug charges stick. He's definitely ambitious. Instead of going through the established dealers, he's been filtering his own people into the country lately, and we think he's trying to build up some kind of network. Obviously, someone should put a stop to that, and sooner is better."

Most of the agents were still frowning, a bit confused as to where White Collar came in, but Neal leaned forward. "He's probably supplying these imports with nice new American identities, isn't he?"

"He almost certainly is," Peter said. "Including —"

"—Social Security numbers," Neal said.

As the _aha_ moment swept the room, he automatically turned to Peter. They usually shared a quick look of satisfaction at times like these, but his partner wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Social Security fraud brings him into White Collar's field of play," Peter continued. "It isn't what anyone _wants_ to get him on, but if we can pin this conviction on him, at least we can get him off the streets. 15 years if we're lucky; less if we're not. Either way, it'll put a hitch in this network before it gets too big and too dangerous."

"Do we know where he's getting the Social Security numbers?" Jones asked.

"At the moment, we don't even know for sure that he is," Peter said. "We'll have to prove it before we can take him down."

At that point, the discussion turned to ways and means.

Neal put in a word wherever he could, occasionally glancing at Peter in search of that approving look. Peter kept his face impassive, and it gradually dawned on Neal that it was rubbing off on everyone else. After so many cases, the usual crew was so attuned to their boss that, without any conscious thought, they were more dismissive of Neal's comments and suggestions. No one was really unfriendly, but he received more dubious glances when he spoke and more challenges to his input.

At times like these, he really wished he could believe that he'd actually been accepted. That he was part of the team.

He smothered a sigh and said, "We know where he is. What about sending someone into his organization to do a little digging?"

"With what cover?" Diana asked.

"Well," Neal said, suppressing the urge to kick himself, "it sounds like this guy might be in the market for a really good identity forger."

"Neal..." Peter started to speak, then cut himself off. After a long pause, he gave a slow nod. "That could work. But we'll need a plan."

For the next hour, Neal found himself in the previously unimaginable situation of practically _begging_ to meet with a drug lord who was likely to be very dangerous, surrounded by very dangerous men, and a little cranky at having an outsider push his way in.

But Peter grew more animated as they fleshed things out.

Finally, Neal cut through the endless discussion of what to do if things went wrong in this way, or this way, or this way.

"Come on, guys, we can handle it. We've done it before. _I've_ done it before."

"Optimism's all very well," Peter began.

"'The optimist invents the aeroplane,'" Neal said quickly.

"Bernard Shaw," Peter said automatically. "But the _rest_ of the quote adds that the pessimist invents the parachute. Don't knock the parachute, Neal. It keeps you alive."

Neal tipped his chair backwards and spread his hands. "But we already have about seven parachutes. And only the plane lets you _soar_."

He gave his most confident smile on the last word, and finally had the reward of hearing chuckles break out and seeing the grudging little curve of Peter's mouth.

Shaking his head a little, Peter clapped his hands. "All right, people. Let's make this happen."

Shortly afterward, as they filed out to their respective tasks, Peter gave Neal a small nod. Just a nod, that was all...yet Neal felt like part of the team.

Or at least he did until shortly after five, when a shadow fell across his desk, and he looked up to see Jones looking just a shade too casual. "Time to go home, Caffrey. I'll drive you."

The consultant closed his eyes briefly as the weight of weariness settled over him like a leaden blanket. A moment later, he flashed a smile and stood up, shrugging on his jacket. "Peter told you," he said.

"Yeah." At least Jones had the good grace to look rather sheepish, then grin. "And I've been wondering all day: just what good would lockpicks do during a zombie apocalypse?"

"Oh, that's easy." Neal picked up his hat, and they walked out to the elevators. "The general consensus is that you'd need shotguns."

"Yeah...?"

"Gun cabinets are usually locked, Clinton."

"Ah."

* * *

"El?"

"In the kitchen!"

As soon as he heard the answer, Peter let out a deep breath and felt the tensions of the day fade into the background. He dropped his briefcase on the couch and shucked off his coat, then headed to the kitchen.

The sight of Elizabeth was even better than the sound of her voice. Heedless of the wooden spoon in her hand, he swept her up into an embrace and pressed a grateful kiss to her lips.

"Wow," she said as they broke apart. She sounded surprised and pleased, yet a knowing little smile quirked the lips he'd just been kissing. "Long day?"

"Oh, honey, you make everything better, but you have _no_ idea. I just—oohhh, what now?" His phone was ringing. He muttered an apology as he wrestled it out of his pocket to answer.

"This is Burke."

_"It's Jones. Peter, I just dropped Caffrey off at his place."_

"Did you escort him to the door?"

_"Yeah."_ There was a slight hesitation, then:_ "Thought you might want to know, though, that the little guy was already there. Waiting for him."_

"Well, that's never good." Peter had a certain guarded liking for Moz, but it was a fact that Neal's most outrageous escapades tended to involve his "legal counsel."

_"Did you want me to set a watch?"_

Peter seriously considered it for a moment. He ran a hand through his hair, then huffed out a breath between pursed lips. "No," he said reluctantly. "No. Just...if someone could check on his monitor from time to time..."

_"Understood, boss."_

"Thanks, Jones."

He hung up and stood staring into space, restlessly tapping his phone against the kitchen counter until Elizabeth gently took the phone away.

"Honey?" she asked.

"I just don't understand it," Peter said slowly. All of a sudden, he slapped his hand down on the counter. "I really don't! He fits in at the office, he does well, he does _good!_ Why can't that be enough?"

El gave him a long, measuring look, then gestured her incomprehension. "Okay, sweetie. I'm assuming this is about Neal, but you're really going to have to give me some proper nouns here."

He leveled a wry expression at her, in turn. "Of course it's about Neal. When isn't it?"

She responded with a series of short nods: half rueful, half amused. They both knew it was the truth. "And?"

"And...you know, I really don't want to think about it right now," Peter concluded. He pulled El in for another few kisses. "I just want to relax...and have dinner...with my beautiful wife."

"That sounds good, too," she said. Even after years of marriage, her smile made his breath catch in his throat.

Peter successfully pushed Neal out of his mind for the next few hours.

All the same, that night, as they lay side by side in the dark, Peter found his mind ticking over the events of the day again.

"He should want to stay," he murmured.

He didn't quite realize he'd said it aloud until El asked, "Who? Neal?"

"Yes," Peter said. "He has a life here. I thought he wanted to stay. He _said_ he wanted to stay."

"I think he does, honey."

"No." He shook his head even though she wouldn't be able to see it. "El, he has a flight bag packed. Had one, anyway. I found it today."

"Where did you find it?"

Peter couldn't imagine why she asked, but answered readily enough. "It was in his closet. Or his wardrobe, whatever he calls the thing. He said he wasn't planning on using it," he added, after a moment.

Somewhat to his surprise, he heard El turn over onto her side. The rustling sheets and vibrations of the mattress suggested that she'd propped herself up on an elbow.

"Maybe he was telling the truth," she said.

"What? No." Peter instantly rejected that idea.

"He could have been. Why not?"

"Because it's _Neal_." He put a world of weary irritation and disappointment into his partner's name. Only someone listening very hard would have detected the other emotions—amusement, affection, and perhaps even a touch of admiration—that were, to Peter, inextricable from the very concept of Neal Caffrey.

He also rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow, facing Elizabeth. "Besides, why would he _have_ it unless he was planning on _using_ it?"

"Oh, Peter, do you really have to ask that?" It was said in what Peter always thought of as one of her most wifely tones. ("I love you. I adore you. My darling, my prince, my own heart. My goodness, but you are being dense.") She was only a vague sketch of light and shadow in the darkened room, but the tiny sigh he heard gave him a pretty good idea of her expression.

"Maybe I do."

"Didn't you tell me that he said you're the only person he trusts?" she asked.

"Yes, but what does that—"

"Well, to me that would imply that he _mistrusts_ everyone else." There was a pause. Peter felt the sheets twitch as she wound them around her fingers. "Maybe including himself. But he trusts _you_. God forbid for all our sakes that anything ever happen to you."

The mattress dipped again as Elizabeth shifted back into her sleeping position.

"Honey, every time Neal enters a room, he looks for all the exits," she said.

Somewhat bemused, Peter settled onto his back. That night, he dreamed of falling through endless blue skies.

* * *

All the way to the loft, Jones and Neal cracked jokes and traded banter. Nevertheless, there was the pretty obvious fact that the agent didn't leave until Neal was actually across the threshold.

"Well, see you tomorrow, Caffrey," said Jones, taking what he probably thought was an inconspicuous peek around the door.

"Thanks for the ride."

He closed the door carefully, then stood waiting until he couldn't hear footsteps on the staircase anymore. At long last, he let out a sigh and leaned into the smooth wood, letting his shoulders sag.

"Rough day at Suit Central?"

Neal briefly pressed his forehead against the door before turning to face Mozzie. His friend was sitting at the table with a glass of wine, expression half-concerned and half-mocking.

Rather than answer right away, Neal carefully removed his jacket and laid it over the back of the couch, before pulling up a chair for himself. He poured a glass of wine, noting with the familiar faint twinge of regret that it was one of his best.

Mozzie had a definite palate for wine, but some strange prejudice against actually buying any.

"Peter found, and confiscated, my bag this morning. It'll take a while to live that down."

Neal dragged a fingertip in small circles against the flesh between his eyes, trying to rub out a headache. "And I'm starting to think he had a point about the parachutes," he muttered.

The other man immediately registered interest.

"Now, did you want to start including parachutes? Because I've only got three on hand, and they're not going to fit in your usual kit."

"No, Moz. It was just...Shaw. You know the quote. But I do need your help to put together a new bag."

"Sure," Mozzie said instantly. "I'm guessing you want your standards, and...new aliases?"

"Yep. From the ground up." The surge of gratitude that came over Neal lightened his mood. Say what you would, Mozzie was good in any rub that happened to come along off the legal highways. "I'm assuming Peter burned all the names in the old kit the moment he got the chance."

"Suits will be suits." Mozzie's tone was laced with disgust. "That's what happens when people are _brainwashed_ by corporate-media-controlled society into buying into this whole _arbitrary_, dictatorial so-called utopia of—"

"Moz!" Over the years, Neal had had a lot of experience with his friend's rants. He knew that unless firmly checked at the beginning, they could continue for hours. It could be kind of fun to listen, in the same way that leaving the History channel on in the background was always good for a few laughs, but Neal wasn't in the mood right now. "Please."

"Right." The smaller man collected himself, pulling a laptop computer from the seat of an unused chair. "So, where do you want to start?"

Neal breathed a sigh of relief and took a sip of wine. "One at a time. Name first," he said.

"Ah, the hook upon which the entire alias is hung," said Mozzie, with a descriptive flourish of one hand.

"Exactly. For the first, how about...Andrew Lanz?"

"Not bad. So where did Andrew grow up?" Mozzie poised his fingers over the keyboard.

Over the next hours, they built three new men. Two had complete identities, or at least would once Mozzie had a few days to work his magic. As for the third, well...they knew almost everything about him, but he was giving them some problems.

"I'm just not sure I feel like a Charles."

At some point after the second bottle of wine, a hand mirror had ended up on the table. Neal turned it this way and that, studying himself, while Mozzie squinted in his direction.

"Augustus?"

"_Augustus?_" The young conman's forehead wrinkled in disbelief. He set the mirror down. "No. That just _sounds_ like an alias."

"It does not. It's perfect!" Mozzie said in protest. "Who would willingly and deliberately call themselves Augustus?"

"A Roman emperor," Neal supplied.

"Yeah, there aren't so many of those around anymore. Choose the road less taken. People will automatically think that you must have been stuck with the name at birth!"

"I'm going to have to pass, _Dante_." Neal drummed his fingers lightly on the tabletop, then shrugged. "Noah. Noah Belmont."

"So emperors are out, but Biblical figures are just fine?" Mozzie demanded. "Okay, okay! I'm typing it in," he said, at the exasperated look Neal shot him.

"And that should do it," said Neal. He sat back and stretched, checking his watch. "For Andrew, Jack, Noah, _and_ me. It's late. I'm gonna turn in."

Nodding, Mozzie took the thumb drive with their work on it and pocketed it. "I'll have the basics tomorrow. The rest, as you know, takes longer."

"Thanks, Moz."

Once his friend had let himself out, Neal threw the deadbolt across and headed for the bedroom. As he undressed, he tried to avoid looking at the spot in the armoire where his emergency bag should have been. Closing the doors on the emptiness, he got into bed and turned the light off.

It had been a long day, and he was tired and just a trifle tipsy—yet somehow sleep refused to come. As often as he tried to compose his mind for rest, Neal repeatedly found himself staring into the darkness, listening for sounds out of place.

In the end, he turned the lights back on.

* * *

Over the next couple of days, as they prepared for the meeting with Muñoz, Peter kept an eye on his partner. Neal was helpful, enthusiastic...and slightly off. He drank a lot of coffee, often without even bothering to complain about the taste. And he fidgeted.

Peter had long since accepted the fact that Neal was a tactile person. It was irritating, but he pretty much took it for granted that, left to his own devices in a room, the con artist would wander around picking things up and examining them. But he was not, as a rule, a fidgeter.

One afternoon, after Neal had spent the last twenty minutes of a meeting tapping his pen against a file, Diana reached over and plucked it out of his grasp.

"Stop, or this goes up your left nostril," she told him. With a pointed glare, she slapped the pen back down on the table.

Neal gave her a startled blink and murmured an apology. Meanwhile, Jones and Peter exchanged a look. Peter shrugged uneasily.

The next evening, the team was crammed into a van across the street from a supposedly derelict building. They listened as Neal talked his way in, presenting himself as "Benjamin Worthing, the best identity smith in the business." With inimitable Caffrey charm and confidence, he got Muñoz to admit that the samples he'd brought were much better than what the drug lord was currently using.

Which meant that he _was_ using something. And now they had that admission on tape.

"Attaboy, Neal," Peter murmured, while grins broke out around the van.

_"Perhaps we do have something to talk about, Benjamin."_ Muñoz's voice came in loud and clear over the mic Neal carried.

Unlike his underlings, Muñoz had very little of the South American accent curling through his rich baritone. His diction was that of a man whose English came from schools. At the beginning of the meeting, danger lurked under his silky tones, but now he sounded approving, almost cordial.

_"I was positive that we would, Andres."_ Everyone in the van could picture the million-megawatt smile that must have accompanied that remark.

Neal pressed for more information._ "You tell me about your organization, and I'll tell you exactly what I can do for you. Then we can discuss just how much my services are worth to you."_

The kid was _very_ smooth. It was starting to look like they might get Muñoz on the drugs as well as the identity fraud.

Peter listened with apprehension that gradually morphed into admiration, as Neal sweet-talked his way into getting a look at the work of Muñoz's forger.

_"Whatever fee you paid, you were overcharged. Now, _I_ can make you identities that are bulletproof. So why don't we have that chat?"_

Jones grinned. "I've got $50 that says the phony ID Caffrey just looked at somehow gets 'misplaced' in his pockets before he leaves," he offered. Diana just shook her head. There were no takers.

Things were progressing perfectly...until Jones suddenly sat up from where he'd been slumped in front of the monitor, keeping eyes on the front door. "Movement, boss," he said tersely. "We've got three, entering the building."

A car had pulled up in front of the door, and a trio of men got out. To Peter's chagrin, they headed directly inside without challenge. It was always a little disconcerting when the equation changed in the middle of a mission. Still, maybe it was fine.

"Be ready, but wait for my signal," he ordered his team.

Moments later, a new voice burst over the wire. _"What's _he_ doing here?"_

The new man's accent was pure Brooklyn. He sounded surprised and angry...and somehow familiar. Peter's stomach clenched.

_"James. This is my new friend, Benjamin Worthing,"_ Muñoz said, reprovingly.

_"The hell he is. I know this guy from back when I worked for Ives!"_

At the mention of the name, Peter threw his headphones down. "Move out!" he shouted. He was sprinting almost before he finished giving the command.

They'd taken out Robert Ives a few months back. Someone recognizing Neal was the one thing they hadn't planned on, thinking that Muñoz was exclusively using his own people. As soon as James revealed that Neal worked with the Feds...

Peter ran faster.

In seconds, they were bursting through the door and pounding down a short passageway.

They found Neal at the center of a ring of extremely hostile men, all with guns drawn. At the first shout of "FBI! Drop your weapons!", he visibly sighed with relief. Once Muñoz and his men were disarmed, Neal turned to Peter with a wry little smile on his face.

"I think being a criminal was actually safer," he said. "I used to be able to go whole months without people pointing guns at my head."

"Sorry, Neal." A little punchy from the adrenaline surge and at finding Neal unharmed, Peter grinned. "Welcome to the good life."

Neal looked around at the armed agents busily swarming over the building and leading handcuffed men away. He flashed a grin back at Peter. "Remind me why we need so many backup plans, when you _know_ you're just going to rush in, guns a-blazing."

"The FBI believes in parachutes," Peter said.

"Yeah, well." With a wave of his hand, Neal indicated the ordered chaos around them; but his eyes were locked on Peter's. "The FBI makes a pretty good one."

An agent came up with a report for Peter, sparing him the effort of finding an answer to that. Later, however, he tracked Neal down outside the building. The blue-eyed con was sitting on the back step of the open van with his jacket off, staring into the middle distance and absently running a hand through his hair.

The hand was trembling slightly. Peter frowned.

"You're shaking. Are you all right?" he demanded.

"I'm fine, Peter." Neal smiled up at the older man, giving a little shrug. "Just haven't been sleeping well the last couple nights. Guess it's catching up to me."

Peter subjected his partner to a long, concerned scrutiny. He looked pale, and there were faint, dark shadows smudged above his cheekbones. At length, the agent nodded. "Go home and get some rest, then."

"Thanks, I think I will." Neal didn't bother to conceal his relief at the dismissal. He hoisted himself to his feet without waiting for any further discussion, grabbing his jacket.

Just then, Jones and Diana pushed through on their way into the van. Jones clapped Neal on the shoulder wordlessly, and Diana offered him a quick smile. "Nice work today, Neal," she said. "See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," Neal agreed. He flipped them all a casual salute, then headed off down the street in search of a cab. Peter watched him go.

After Neal disappeared around the corner, Peter sat down, and looked up at the sky, and thought.

* * *

At home a few hours later, Neal sat at his kitchen table, sipping a glass of wine and trying to read a book.

A soft noise from the landing outside made him turn, his body instantly poised for action. He waited tensely for some time, but heard nothing more, so he got up and moved cautiously to the door.

A quick check of the crack underneath showed the dark shadow of something resting on the floor, but it didn't look like feet. Neal listened intently a while longer, trying to discern breathing. Or ticking.

Finally, he braced himself and opened the door a wary inch, and discovered that there was indeed something sitting outside.

It was small, sleek, and unassuming. Black leather, silver-washed fittings, a mere 12 by 18 inches. And it had a yellow sticky note wrapped around one of the handles.

The note was unsigned, but he recognized the writing instantly. It was a hand he could forge blind, drunk, or unconscious.

With a soft laugh, he picked up the bag and carried it into the bedroom, where he tucked it away once more in the armoire. He detached the note and smoothed it out, smiling as he read it once more:

_When you jump out of a plane, you need two._

Neal Caffrey turned out the lights and went to sleep.


End file.
